rivalry?
by loverloverlover
Summary: a short story about andrew minyard and neil josten from nora sakavic's series, 'all for the game.' - - - andrew and neil's pro teams play each other for the first time in a while, and, of course, Neil gets hurt. [cover art: llstarcasterll on instagram]


**.: Rivalry? :.**

"_Well, you know that old saying, 'Keep your friends close and make out with your enemies.'"_ ― Shae Ross

It had been a whole entire month. A full _month_ had passed since Neil had seen Andrew through anything other than a FaceTime screen. They hadn't gone this long without seeing one another since Neil's fifth year at Palmetto when Andrew was away with his new pro team and unable to get away. Their schedules the past few weeks had been more than hectic—really, they'd been absolute hell—what with the beginning of a new season and all the press and photo-ops they were meant to participate in. There hadn't even been time for them to sneak away for a single weekend.

Tonight though, their respective teams were playing each other in Neil's domain. This meant that the first time Neil would lay eyes on Andrew's face would be through the cage of an Exy helmet. It wasn't _exactly_ ideal, but it was enough and Neil wasn't about to complain.

It was currently the pre-game press run-down, and it was Neil's turn to sit in on his team's panel. He'd had a modicum of press relations training since he'd joined the pros—his team managers had insisted and even gone as far to put it in the _large_ print of his contract after seeing videos of college him—yet he was still notorious for his relationship with the press. The press, on the other hand, was obsessed with _his_ relationship with Andrew—or more specifically, their 'rivalry'.

Everything had started during their first pro-game against each other last year—had started with a middle finger Andrew had shot across the court. Neil had sent back a mockingly flirty wave, but no one else saw the affection behind it—only the taunt. Next thing either one of them knew, no one would shut up about it. There were news articles and BuzzFeed quizzes and overly invasive questions at their press conferences. Essentially, their rivalry was one of the most talked about topics of Exy and the reporters never failed to bring it up. The hype leading up to this game in particular was unparalleled, and Neil knew the whole charade amused Andrew to no end—even if the other man would never admit it out loud.

Two of Neil's teammates, Clark Grobel and Anna Spilski, were sitting on either side of him and they groaned quietly—too low for the various mics in front of them to pick it up—as they leaned back in their chairs at the reporters next question.

"Is there anything that you would want to say to Mr. Minyard before the match today, Mr. Josten?"

Neil smiled his father's smile—the one the press seemed to enjoy the most and derive a perverted sense of pleasure from—and replied, "He better bring his all because we won't be holding back."

"Mr. Grobel!" A young blond reporter called out over the din that followed Neil's response. "How do you feel, as captain, about the rivalry between your teammate and the Bearcats goalie? Are you worried this game will get too physical—especially considering the last game between your two teams got rather rough?"

"I'm confident enough in Neil's ability as a player, and in his dedication to this team, to know that he'll set aside his personal feelings concerning Minyard in order to play the game the way it needs to be played. And all Exy games are 'rather rough,' Miss. It's a violent game, but I have no worries, no."

.:..:.

Since Neil's team was home, their lineup was called first. He didn't think he would ever get used to the roar of the crowd—the sheer volume they managed to create—as he stepped out onto a professional Exy court. Neil took his starting position at the half-court line and waited for the rest of his team to join him. Really, he was waiting to hear his partner's name—to get his first glance at Andrew sine they'd said their lengthy goodbye in the parking garage of his apartment complex a month prior.

"Number seven, goalie Andrew Minyard!" the announcer said over the loudspeaker. Andrew's goalie pads covered all of his body—hiding his true proportions—but his gait was achingly familiar and it sent a rush of relief through Neil's chest. Andrew was home to him, and simply seeing him in person reminded Neil of late nights and cigarettes and keys.

Instead of walking towards his position in goal—which Neil hadn't really expected him to do—Andrew headed straight for him. Neil stood up straighter, liking the small few inches of height he had on him, when Andrew came to a stop in front of him. Neil let loose a shallow breath when Andrew's fingers tangled in the metal of his helmet. Andrew pulled him close and bumped their helmeted foreheads together, the gesture achingly soft; he barely registered the crowd's increase in sound, too focused on resisting the urge to place his hands upon Andrew's biceps.

"I missed you," Neil whispered.

They stood in silence for the length of four heartbeats, and Neil knew it was ridiculous—not to mention, extremely unlikely—but he could swear he inhaled the alluring scent of Andrew's pine and mint aftershave.

"Missed you too, junkie," Andrew replied before giving Neil's head a push and stalking off, finally, to his goal.

"The fuck he want?" Anna yelled from her dealer position behind him.

"Nothing!" Neil yelled back. "Just trying to rile me before the serve!"

"You good?" Clark asked from his right. Neil liked Clark. He was a good captain, and his personality reminded Neil of Allison—all boisterous energy and unflappable confidence.

"Never been better." Neil was grinning with the knowledge that he was telling the truth.

The game began with an intensity that Neil always relished in, but by the end of the first half, it was borderline vicious and had definitely lost its charm. Andrew had played the first twenty minutes of the first half, and he had promptly shut Neil out completely—all with a grin on his face. This wasn't for lack of trying on Neil's part, Andrew just knew him and his playing style too well. Once Andrew was subbed though, Neil's team began to score, and they managed to be two ahead going into the second half.

Neil was sore all over. His thigh was throbbing, and he was almost positive that his shoulder was going to need a proper icing before he left the stadium tonight. The second half broke down even quicker than the first, and when Andrew went back on at the end of the game, Neil's team was only ahead by one point. Neil's backliner mark was brutal, and he had almost a whole foot on Neil. That in and of itself made Neil's job a challenge, but the man also wasn't shy about his extreme dislike for Neil personally. He made this obvious through brutal—borderline illegal—checks and tripping Neil up every chance he got.

Neil's silence in response to his frankly uncreative taunts was starting to grate on his patience, and Neil knew what was coming next, loath as he was to prepare for it. The next time Neil snagged the ball, he was closer the wall than he would've liked—backing himself into a corner. His mark took full advantage of this opportunity, and even though Neil attempted to brace himself, he was crushed against the wall—his breath leaving his lungs in a solid _whoosh_. Black spots danced in his vision as he collapsed to his hands and knees, trying desperately to draw breath into his lungs. There was a solid and steady throbbing in his ribs, and Neil knew they were bruised.

_Fuck_, this hurt.

At long last, he managed to draw a stilted and painful breath into his lungs, and he raised his hand to signal to the refs that he couldn't go on. Two of his teammates came over to help him hobble off the court, and Neil managed to turn his head towards Andrew. No one else would catch this—but as Neil had had ample opportunity to study the lines of Andrew's body, he knew what to look for—but some of the tension drained from Andrew's shoulders at Neil's small nod of reassurance.

There were only five minutes left in the game, so instead of checking him out on the bench, his team doctor shuffled him into the locker room to examine him. Neil was used to this part—the check-ups and the stern talking to where he's told to take it easy that he rarely listened to. The doc strapped some ice to his ribs and his shoulder before leaving him to sit in the examination room while the final minutes of the game ticked away.

The cheers from the locker room a few minutes later let him in on the fact that they had won, and after the doctor told him he could leave—Abby would be proud that he was better at listening to medical professionals these days—Neil joined his teammates in the showers.

Soon, Neil was toweling off and gingerly pulling on his slacks and button down, when all he wanted was his worn sweats and one of Andrew's soft t-shirts. But rules were rules, and a suit was required for potential after-game photo-ops. He collapsed on the bench in front of his locker and ran a hand through his damp hair—then winced at the movement. Neil knew then that buttoning up his shirt was going to take a Herculean effort so he left it be and went to check his phone for any updates from Andrew.

Just as he was powering on his phone, there was a large influx of noise from the direction of the exit to the hallway, and Neil looked up. There's a usual amount of post-game noise that was to be expected, but this was different. Clark caught his eye from across the room just before, in a flurry of movement, the door flew open and Andrew shouldered his way past the security guard in the hallway. The guard reached quickly for Andrew's arm to haul him back out of the room, but Neil knew that was a good was for the guard to lose an arm.

"It's fine, leave him," Neil called out. Clark looked ready to start a fight on Neil's behalf, so Neil added, "No, Clark. He can stay."

As Andrew stalked towards him, dodging and ignoring Neil's dumbstruck teammates, he snarled out a low, "You idiot."

At Andrew's tone, Clark stepped between them and planted his feet. Neil just pushed his teammate out of the way, though, and smirked at his fuming partner.

"What percent am I at now?" Neil asked.

"230%"

"Oh, but that's an improvement!" Neil smiled and tilted his head. "I was at 250% after I brought home Sir."

Andrew didn't respond and it gave Neil a chance to just look at him. He was in his drees clothes too; his white shirt was fitted across his shoulders and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was also wearing the armbands that Neil had gotten him last Christmas—the ones with the red stitching that had reminded Neil of the seats in Andrew's Maserati. Andrew was freshly showered as well, so when he shook his head and dropped to a knee in front of Neil, Neil got a whiff of Andrew's sandalwood shampoo—an actual whiff this time, not an imaginative one brought on by the desire to be close to him. Andrew pulled open Neil's dress shirt to analyze the damage. Neil's torso was already a mottled mess of purple bruises and Andrew's expression twisted.

"I'll kill him," Andrew muttered.

"And they say _I'm_ the PR nightmare," Neil droned. "You don't go kill your teammates, 'Drew."

"Fuck off," Andrew said venomously. Neil knew that the anger simmering behind Andrew's eyes wasn't directed at him—and that Andrew likely wasn't as angry as he let on, rather worried—but his teammates didn't know any better.

"Hey, back off Minyard!" Anna yelled. "The fuck are you doing in here anyway?"

"Obviously, I'm checking on the _idiot_ who let himself get pinned to the wall by a five-eleven backliner who's got at least a hundred pounds on him," Andrew answered sardonically.

"It's not my fault," Neil muttered, giving up—again—on trying to button his shirt when it pulled painfully on his muscles. Andrew batted his hands out of the way and did the buttons up quickly and without any fanfare.

"It's mostly your fault," Neil's coach said, appearing in the doorway and crossing his arms. He nodded at Andrew. "Minyard."

Andrew tapped two fingers to his temple in greeting.

Neil huffed and bent to tie up his dress shoes when he took a sharp intake of breath and clutched his side—his ribs protesting again. Andrew looked at him sternly and Neil sat back and let Andrew wordlessly do up his laces. Andrew then grabbed Neil's things from his locker and threw them into his own bag before levering Neil to his feet and gently smoothing down the collar of his shirt. It must have been this detail, or the fact that Andrew was putting Neil's things into _his_ bag, that made everything click in his captain's mind.

"You're together," he said dumbly. "Like, in a relationship."

"Yes," Neil replied the same time Andrew said, "No."

Neil glared half-heartedly at Andrew, but it turned into a small grin when he saw the amusement in Andrew's eyes.

"Why haven't you said anything?" Clark asked. "And why do you hype up the rivalry so much if you're not actually rivals?"

"Because it's amusing," Andrew answered, shouldering his bag and heading towards the door. "Let the mindless vultures think we hate each other—they're not far off."

"Rude," Neil responded, following Andrew out of the locker room and leaving his dumbstruck team members behind him.

* * *

grammatical errors? i know her. i also didn't know how to end this so... i just stopped writing lol

this is my first ever fic for this fandom and after reading other peoples story's for years i decided to write one of my own.

hope you enjoyed, and if you did, leave a review :)


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